Who says that!?

My husband and I just bought a house. We plan to be here for a long ass time, and I got past my commitment anxiety (a recurring theme) and decided I want to really put down roots in this community. So I started looking for opportunities to meet the neighbors. 

I prayed for some extra grandparents for my kids. My in-laws are wonderful, but my parents recently moved far away. Both of our next-door neighbors are grandmas, check!  And a sweet friend who is old enough to be my mom is just around the corner.

I also have been praying/ wishing/ hoping for friends for my husband and me. We both have friends, but we don't have many friends in common, especially couples. Sometimes I have to hunt a little to find my tribe. But finding another couple that we can hang out with comfortably, in which all four of us enjoy one another's company, without any sexual tension.... that couple is a needle in a haystack. Especially for a couple of weirdos like us--I'm very outgoing but I get bored easily with small talk, and my husband prefers the company of his FE motors to the company of human beings.

When we were looking at this house, I spotted my husband's new best friend (according to me)--behind the wheel of a late 70's Ford pickup in the driveway across the street. After we bought the house, the guy came over to help my husband move a motor in, and they got shop talking. His wife walked over to say hi. She is beautiful, red-headed, with a little girl about a year younger than ours. She smiles a lot.

Well, as an ambitiously friendly neighbor, a week later I washed a jacket that my 2-year-old had outgrown, and took it across the street. I was very excited to have somewhere to send my adorable little girl's adorable hand-me-downs. And I am trying to hold back my imagination, but I imagine this being the beginning of a beautiful friendship. 

But what do I do? I give her the jacket saying it's the first of many, if she wants. She thanks me and says "That's so sweet!" And then I run my mouth. "I don't know if you already have plenty, or if you also like to shop, but I love to buy girls' clothes. I have really nice hand-me-downs." It comes out in a tone like I'm bragging. She just smiled and thanked me again.

As soon as I got home, I said to myself, you idiot! Who says that!? "I have really nice hand-me-downs." What an obnoxious thing to say.  Then I remind myself not to over-identify (more on that another time) with the emotion of the moment and just forget about it. (Clearly I didn't, because here I am writing about it.)

You may also be wondering, yeah, who talks like that? Well, you'll sympathize a little more when I tell you, most of my life I have been on the receiving end of hand-me-downs, and they are often shitty. I am very pleased to be able to give very nice hand-me-downs, that do not have stains, holes, or worn out elastic.  I also wanted to reassure my potential friend that I would not be giving her junk like a lot of people do.

I wonder if she remembers what I said, or what kind of impression I made. Hopefully she has not thought about it nearly as much as I have. I wonder how we could get to be friends. But I should probably play it cool. I hate it when I try too hard.

I Don't Know

I've often thought I should start a new blog page titled What I Really Think. It would have many of the musings and thoughts that I write on Facebook and then quickly delete, worrying about what people will think and who I might offend.

What I Really Think would have my true opinions about all kinds of things--religion, politics, relationships, parenting... Usually I have thought it over from several angles, and usually people say I have an interesting perspective. What I Really Think would be cathartic, but I would probably alienate most of my friends sooner or later.

I have a dozen drafts on different topics, in the spirit of What I Really Think, but they always fall apart before I finish. I start to see the holes or the unanswered questions and abandon it before writing the conclusion.  Perhaps it's my laziness not to follow my logic through; perhaps I'm pretty terrible at logic and my opinions are crap. Or maybe it's my reluctance to commit to an opinion--I blame that on my Pacific Northwest culture. Open-minded and open-ended to a fault.

Well who cares. No one wants my judgments, do they? Occasionally people ask what I think, but more often they say, "That's a good question." Today it struck me--good questions are far more interesting than concrete answers anyway. Again, I'll credit Oregon culture, but isn't it more valuable to turn something over in your mind often, to continually examine, than to speed toward some conclusion?

So I'm going to start writing more honestly. Maybe if I don't have some polished gem of truth to write about, I can at least write about my process and my questions... and my little tiny speck of an ordinary life that is a whole world to me.

Love sees beauty

One of the sweetest things about leading worship in a church is having a perfect view of all the beautiful faces singing to God from their hearts. Sometimes there are tears; sometimes I see struggle on their faces as they pray. But I always see beauty.

I imagine God sees a lot more beauty than me, since He is also looking deep into the shining heart who wears a quiet face. Sure, He also sees more junk than I do, I can see a little of it. But if I am overwhelmed by the beauty of the saints from my corner of the platform, how much more is He? God is love--love always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

"I look across the room and I see Jesus in your eyes," my pastor said a couple weeks ago, beaming with her mother heart of love. She saw beauty.

When I see God's people during worship, I see weakness but also earnest faith. My heart swells like a mother who longs to encourage a struggling child. This is God--He loves to love, His selfless love is so abundant He pours it out on whomever will receive it.

Sometimes the faithful feel small, but His goodness is all around them and in them. Oh, with eyes to see, we would see His glory shining upon us! We would see the Kingdom of God already in our midst. "The saints in the earth, they are the majestic ones in whom is all my delight," the Psalmist wrote. If a man may take such delight in the saints, how much more does God delight in the ones He redeemed with His own Son?

As I was meditating on these things, I thought of the verse that says, "You are His workmanship." So I looked it up and saw--I hadn't realized--this statement appears right alongside those famous verses in Ephesians, "By grace you have been saved through faith, and that is not of yourselves, it is a gift of God; not as a result of works, that no one should boast."

I had a light bulb moment: We are not saved by our works--we are His work! What beautiful things He does! How wonderful His handiwork! Everything He does is excellent and good! Like that Kevin Prosch song says, "You do all things well! Just look at our lives."

And here is the rub, when these words are hard to say. We don't always look or feel like excellent handiwork. It's easy to look at a sunset and say to God, "You do all things well," but not so easy say while looking in the mirror.

Yet we must. What other choice do we have? Everything He does is good--goodness flows from His nature and character.  He is the definition of goodness. He cannot not do good! If we are His, then we are His work, and all His work is good, so we are good work.

To refuse to believe that you are a good work is to say He is not a capable craftsman, or He is not good. Are His hands tied? Is the One who designed the universe stumped by our problems? Certainly not. He is the visionary of all visionaries--He sees great beauty on the empty canvas, the half-finished canvas, the blood-smeared and tear-stained canvas.

Precious saints, how lovely you are! You are lovely to me, in your earthiness and foolishness and stumbling earnest. How lovely are you to the Father?

"How lovely are Your dwelling places, O Lord of hosts," the sons of Korah wrote in Psalm 84. Isaiah said the Messiah would be Immanuel, God With Us. And this is the already-but-not-yet truth of it: "the tabernacle of God is among men" (Revelation 21).

The Sons of Korah served before God's Presence in David's tabernacle. It seems like they were probably writing about that "dwelling place." Some translations change it to singular to make it sound better, but it is plural. God's dwelling places are beautiful. We are His beautiful dwelling places! And He fills the temple with glory. We are not so lovely on our own--sin distorts the image of God into wretchedness-- but the redeemed are filled with the light and presence of God, clothed in beauty, dignity and strength.

Precious saints, what a lovely dwelling place you are. How beautiful the Spirit of grace dwelling in you and covering you. Though you feel the brittleness of being an earthen vessel, yet the power of God abides in you. Just as an ugly face is beautiful in candlelight, just as a covering of snow makes mundane things beautiful and clean, the Spirit of God shines on you and clothes you in grace.

His lovely dwelling place is not an imaginary temple, a place far away, a place we go to when we feel spiritual. We are His lovely dwelling place, the home of God.

Father, I believe I am Your home, Your lovely temple. You make us beautiful; Your grace shines on us. Let me walk, now, beaming with confidence in Your grace. I repent for heaping shame on myself and putting myself down. I am Your workmanship, and You have good works prepared for me. Give me grace to trust Your work and Your Spirit in me. Give me wisdom to have confidence in You without arrogance or presumption in my heart. And help me, Father, to see Your people the way You see them, as lovely dwelling places, homes of Your Spirit. Give my heart delight in the saints, the majestic ones, so I can honor You by honoring them.
♡ Amen.

Unconditional Love

I am smitten. Hopelessly intoxicated with affection for my little girl who was born in December (she's going on 4 months old). I know it's biology--oxytocin, the love and bonding hormone, released into my brain when I nurse, when she whimpers, when she smiles, even when I just stare at her angelic little face.  But since I am a believer in things that cannot be measured, I believe love is more than biology.

And she is more than biology, this little bundle of new flesh, helpless yet strong. She looks like a different creature each week, becoming herself. That is the journey of life, right? The journey I am still in, becoming myself. And I love her through every little transition and am willing to do whatever necessary to help her along.

I want to compare my mother love to God's love. Now, don't be alarmed; I am well aware that He is holy and He is other than weak little me... and yet, He created me in His image. All of natural life is full of pictures and parables pointing to Him. As the skies and oceans make us feel small enough to contemplate a Creator, the natural love of parents toward children points us to the greatest and most loving parent of all. I try not to presume, but I think it is reasonable to say, if humans are capable of great love, how much greater is God's love?

God's love is underrated, often painted as abstraction, or taken for granted... but we can never tire of mentioning His love. Like the hymn says, if the sky was paper, the oceans ink, and every man a scribe, the oceans would go dry and the paper would be too small to tell about the love of God.

So I am in love. My baby girl doesn't have to do anything for me to love her. I mean absolutely nothing! Even if she cries inconsolably for what seems like an entire afternoon, I am more often frustrated with my inability to meet her needs than with the inconvenience her needs present. I got irritated more easily with my first-born, but I've become a little more patient and a little less selfish with each baby. (She is my third.) How much more does God love us unconditionally, regardless of whether we appreciate Him or love Him back?

Sometimes I am lazy or cold hearted, and don't respond right away to a child crying. Sometimes I delay on purpose to give them a chance to practice calming down on their own, but often it's my sheer indifference. But God is not like me that way; He doesn't get lazy or apathetic toward His kids. His heart is always for us, always with us, always responsive and connected. He does not resent inconvenience. (The cross, after all, was pretty inconvenient.) He hears when His children cry and responds perfectly.

When my little one is satisfied with my comfort, when she eats herself into a breastmilk coma-- I am truly delighted. I feel proud and powerful--in a good way--sustaining her existence with my own body. I am satisfied because she is satisfied. (If you're a mom who couldn't breastfeed, no judgment here.)  How much more is God willing--even delighted-- to meet our needs? How much more does He take joy when we are satisfied with His provision and care?

You've probably heard, breastmilk is miraculous stuff. It's a perfect balance of nutrients--protein, fat, sugars, water, vitamins, living probiotics, immune boosters, literally everything a baby needs for the first six months of life on the outside. The supply matches the needs of the baby, the supply and demand constantly fluctuating, constantly synchronizing. Breastmilk even delivers like a three course meal, with the lightest milk first and the sweetest, fattiest milk last.

One of God's names in the Bible is Shaddai, the breasted one. If that grosses you out, too bad! He is not embarrassed. After all, He personally designed the amazing female body to bear His image alongside the male. As the breasted one, He sustains us Himself, every breath, every meal, every heartbeat. His nourishment is miraculous and sufficient; His supply to us matches our need perfectly.

Sometimes I am lazy or hard hearted and don't respond right away to a child crying. (Sometimes I delay on purpose to give them a chance to practice calming down on their own, but usually it's sheer laziness.) But God is not like me that way; He doesn't get lazy or apathetic toward His kids. His heart is always for us. He does not resent inconvenience. (The cross, after all, was pretty inconvenient.) He hears when His children cry and responds perfectly.

If you are thinking, Wow, her version of God sounds like a sissy, let me say a few things. First, God is also the wisest parent and I do not mean to say He is a pushover. He perfectly discerns needs, wants and the gray areas in between. He always meets our needs and sometimes witholds our wants to help us become mature in self-control, humility, generosity, etc. But through it all, His heart is for us, wanting good for us.

Second, I know in part and prophesy in part. We cannot really grasp all of God's facets at once. I just wanted to look at one facet of God's mother-like love, one that is not often mentioned in communities where God's masculinity is strongly emphasized. He is masculine too. He is both; male and female He made us in His image. God is full and perfect in every facet--as King, as Shepherd, as Friend, as Deliverer... I want to see all of Him, but rather than try to stand far enough back to see the whole mountain that fills the earth, sometimes I like to look very closely at one little part. His love is vast; I am just illustrating one little part.

Meditating on God's perfect love reminds me of some lines in a Jason Upton song: "Frustrated, I try to make it, 'cause I've just got something to prove. Smiling, He says, 'Son, come here. Won't you let me just help you?'" Like a parent, He is intimate in His love for us, and willing to be close to us. I am not suggesting that we go through life acting like helpless babies, but I am suggesting we receive God's love with childlike trust, un-self-conscious and dependent, making our needs known without shame. I love my little girl more than she knows and I am undone by my love for her--how much more does God love me? My little girl depends on me for her life; certainly I can depend on God for mine.

Trusting God with my heart's desire

Fear and worry are sort of my favorite enemies to pick on; I savor every victory. This particular battle was a bit longer than usual, though. When my daughter was in the womb I worried more than I had worried for my sons. I had those normal but disturbing nightmares about giving birth to a pile of rocks, to a wooden doll, to a tiny creature that fit in the palm of my hand and then shrunk and disappeared.

Maybe I was just more anxious because I wanted her so much. I loved my two boys but I wanted a girl so badly, and my husband and I agreed this was going to be our last child. When I found out I was pregnant, long before the ultrasound, I bought a sweet little girl's pajama, whispering a prayer that I believed God was giving me the girl I asked for. I hid it in my closet because I didn't want my husband to think I was foolish. Months later at the ultrasound, my heart beat faster when the technician asked if I wanted to know the gender. Had i been a fool? Was it just chance and biology? Does God care about these things? Tears sprang in my eyes when she told me it's a girl. No one else has to believe-- I know there was a 50% chance of having the girl I wanted, but in my heart I chose to believe it was God's doing.

One night while I was pregnant I woke up and didn't feel her moving. (Babies in utero sleep a lot--no need for concern unless a couple hours go by with no movement.) I practically held my breath waiting for her to wake up, unable to go back to sleep until I was sure.
While I laid in the dark waiting, fear welled up in my heart. What if God gave me the girl I asked for, only to take her away and break my heart? What if He just wants to test me? Will I still believe in Him? I reluctantly concluded, yes, I would still believe... Helpless sadness began to settle into my heart as I resigned myself to a capricious God, arbitrary and heartless as He tests His followers. Vaguely I was aware of some questionable doctrines I had somehow picked up along the way-- if you love something or someone too much, God will take it away from you in His jealousy.  Vaguely I thought, Wait, that's not right... That's not right!

Suddenly my heart and spirit came wide awake as I shook off fear. Boldly I prayed --whispering, because my husband was sleeping, but in my heart I was shouting-- "No! My Father is not cruel! He cares about the desires of my heart! He cares about me! He would not give me the child I asked for and then destroy her. I trust You! The enemy comes to steal, kill, and destroy, but You came to give life! I trust You to take care of us! Watch over my body, watch over this child, Father!"

Over the rest of the pregnancy I still struggled with fear and worry, but I had confidence in the goodness of my Father, and I continued to pray believing He is for me and not against me. Never again did I beg for Him to have mercy as if He were a cruel master. As my due date drew near, my water broke partially with no contractions. My midwife said the baby had plenty of fluid left, but we needed to be vigilant against infection. I still worried and prayed and fretted.

Days went by and I wrote to my church's prayer team:  "Asking for prayer that the baby gets in optimal position and the Lord's perfect timing. And also asking prayer for me, for peace and confidence. For some reason I have struggled with fear and worry for this baby all through my pregnancy. But I am choosing to trust God's good intentions."

Mike Brink, the prayer team leader, responded: "Lord, bless Aurora. Fill her with Peace. Put peace into her amniotic fluid, all thru the sac, and into the umbilical cord and baby. Bring peace, acceptance, and welcome to Baby. Bring peace into the whole process. Banish all fears and let your angels minister all the touches of peace and health and love that Baby and Mother both will need throughout and after."

That night, rather than another birth nightmare, I dreamed about a beautiful white home full of colorful books and artwork--including children's handprint art. Outside was a garden bursting with flowering vines, a cherry tree in bloom, and flowers everywhere, as if, unlike earthly life, all the plants were flowering at the same time.

The next day I was full of peace. I stopped doing exercises to get her in optimal position, I stopped taking the evening primrose supplement that was supposed to help labor start, I took the day off from worry, and sat around watching tv--not very spiritual, but that's the truth. She was born the following morning with no complications. However, as my midwife checked the placenta, she discovered that the umbilical cord was barely attached. Normally the tough gristle-like tissue surrounding the precious blood vessels is firmly anchored to the center of the placenta. But the vessels were only attached at the outer edge of the placenta, and the tough protective tissue wasn't connected at all. If the baby had got the cord wrapped around a foot and kicked, she could have died. We looked at Mike's prayer again and felt chills. My midwife said, well, you had good reason to be worried.

The day she was born, my husband said he wanted to name her Rosalyn ("pretty rose"). I had worked on a list of my favorite names, and Rosalyn was not one of them. But when he said, with a matter-of-fact shrug, "She's a rose," I remembered my garden dream and agreed. I realized that most of the names I had chosen were about me, not her. I felt God telling me that she will be different from me, reserved, a caretaker, a gentle gardener. So I chose another garden feature for her middle name, Ivy, which represents "faithfulness."

So my heart is full. I was going to write about my love for my daughter, even though she has done nothing--absolutely nothing!--to earn it. And I was going to say, how much more does our Father God love us unconditionally. But I guess I needed to tell this story first, about God's faithfulness to me and my little rose.

A different angle of abiding

In October, I was at a small house of prayer conference. As we prayed before the service, I saw in my mind's eye a couple face-to-face like lovers: Jesus and His people, especially the people who emphasize "intimacy with God." Then I saw the faces move so that they were side by side, so closely connected that their minds and hearts were in unity. They looked forward together. I shared my impression with the worship team and believed God was going to do a change in us, a shift in our relationship with Him.

 Here at the end of December, I wonder if I am doing something wrong. I don't have near as much face-to-face time with God in prayer and worship as I used to. I don't feel backslidden; love is alive in my life and maturing. I feel His presence when I practice goodness and kindness and humility. But this other rhythm of life is uncomfortable. I don't feel guilty for abandoning all the vigorous meetings I used to attend. And I don't feel guilty for not reading my Bible every day. I am glad when I read it and content with what I have hidden in my heart the rest of the time. Is it ok that I am ok with this? I had to think it over in poem.

We have changed-- I know I have grown
I look in your face less often now
Yet you seem more near, familiar, ever-present
I used to try to always look for your eyes
Now it seems like I have your eyes
I am seeing what you see when I stop for the one
I feel what you feel when kindness for the little ones surges up inside me
Your diligence is chipping away inside me
As I chip away at housework, smiling a little more
I dont often have the euphoria of encounter these days
But I feel slow love at work, steady as a mountain, filling the earth
I have no ambition but to love, having laid down my arms
Oh rest! To have no agenda but to be available to love
My left and right hand hidden, no programs to build.
Someday again it will be time to plant and build
Something alive and clean
But now is the year to let the field rest
While microbes and worms and unseen helpers turn the dirt
Renewing its capacity to sustain roots
This year, let weeds and wildflowers jostle on the surface
And when they fade fold their small strength under the earth
Preparing for new seeds and new crops ahead

It is against my training to neglect the ecstasy of worship:
I have been told it's the reason to be alive, to encounter God
I often thought it was my only purpose
But now I have to be about my Father's business,
I cannot live for spiritual ecstasy
At the same time I have renewed my commitment to ecstasy at home
How strange, when once I longed for worship times and shunned my husband,
And now my worship has changed and i have welcomed my husband into my heart at last
I have pondered this switch; I believe it is good.
Maybe I have stopped "worshipping worship,"
Maybe I was addicted to the emotional experience and not God Himself
Because now the worship emotions have changed
And I still have Him near and dear

Yesterday I saw Akiane in a video say,
When I was younger God talked to me face to face
But now that I am older I just know he is with me, in the paints
In the creating, I know he is with me all the time.
Then I remembered what i saw
Changing from face to face to side by side
Close, side by side, almost one, like a siamese twin,
overlapping like those photos on Gungor's new album
And now I think I am on the right track
It's ok for me to be ok with this.

I'm sending my five-year-old to public school in a poor neighborhood

Some months ago, a dear friend was lamenting again how she wants to move. I pointed out that as long as I've known her, wherever she lives, she always wants to move. But wherever you go, there you are. She protested that this was different, she wants a better school for her kids, fewer drug addicts in the neighborhood... Her bland apartment, smashed in next to dozens of others, with children always traipsing through each other's unfenced yards, is not so bad. It's not unsafe. It's just not nice. And the people aren't all nice, just average sinners, some swearing and drinking, with occasional marijuana and neglect... All the kids love to come to my friend's house, because she was born to be a mother. Her compassion grows with every (unplanned) child she bears. As we talk, her beautiful petite frame is filling out with number five. She practices kindness and patience with the neighbor kids, and shares from her consistent supply of goldfish crackers, the same way she used to put them in a cute mug for me when I first met her. I've eaten a lot of goldfish crackers at my friend's retro kitchen table, and so have the kids in her neighborhood. But she worries. Maybe this neighborhood isn't "good for" her kids. As long as I've known her, she's wanted more, always restless. Her poor husband is always scraping through to feed all the mouths and keep them under one roof. I had an epiphany while I was listening to her. Someone saddled my friend with the idea that in order to please God, you must live in a nice neighborhood and your kids must grow up in safety, with plenty of opportunities. I suddenly felt a little ire at this great and prevalent lie, that God's will is the American dream. I got on a soapbox and said something like, "You don't have to live in a nice neighborhood to be a good Christian! If that were God's will, then most of the world wouldn't be able to attain it! And what about the missionaries living in some remote place laying down their lives for love? Bet their kids don't get a lot of "opportunities" as Americans think of them. Maybe God put you here in THIS apartment complex to love and show compassion. If you love your neighbors and teach your kids to love, they will be fine. Show them that you are content in God's will. They don't have to go to a nice school, they just need to know they can trust God and love people!" My friend couldn't argue with my point, and admitted she needs to trust God more, otherwise how can she teach her kids in that way? She also seemed a little relieved to hear that God didn't expect her to figure out how to improve her status in order to be acceptable to Him. ...... Today this conversation rushed back into my mind, as I looked at the tuition prices of a Christian school. Because I'm worried. Worried that the elementary school across the street won't be "good for" my kindergartener. Will the Mexican neighbors who pick on him in the front yard treat him even worse at school, when I'm not close by? I tell my sons to love their neighbors. All the time. Love, love, love. And tell the truth. Not just "be nice," or "behave." Love from the heart and forgive; if you can't, ask God for help. But in my heart, I am afraid to send them out into the world where they will certainly encounter mistreatment. (And all the experienced moms, who have already sent children away to school and college and marriage, will smile gently and chuckle at my fear, because they remember it so well.) Of course, I don't want my sons to volunteer for abuse, but l have only taught them the armor of love and truth. The armor of fear and isolation (or at least pre-emptive rejection of strangers) would be a lot more safe and predictable. I see other little boys Lachlan's age who have already learned to swagger like their fathers and hold their heads up, and look for their own advantage. Lachlan still has no swagger, no pride, no pretense. He's tender-hearted and vulnerable; I don't want him to learn hardness and lying.

I looked up a local Christian school I had seen. $200 a month for tuition. And tears sprang to my eyes because that price is impossible for us right now. And then I recognized the same mentality my friend was struggling with--this is what it means to be a good Christian American family: You're supposed to own a house, one or two cars that don't break down, send your kids to Christian school or home school, live on only one income, have dinner together every night. Well what if you're poor!? Then you need to work harder so you're not poor anymore, then you can be the kind of Christian God is looking for? What a pile of crap.

And on the other hand, I know what's "good for" most people---a healthy dose of challenges and trials, passed through with patience and faith. Humans are always trying to avoid pain; some Americans seem to take any pain or difficulty as an infringement on their rights. Doesn't the Bible say something about being "patient in affliction"? It's sort of un-American, but it's definitely part of basic Christianity. So, then, perhaps the "best" thing for Lachlan will be to go to a school where he is part of the racial minority. Perhaps the best thing I can do as a parent is to strengthen him to endure a little rejection and mistreatment, to pass through it with dignity, confidence, and patience. Will the armor of love be enough? I hope so.